


Weather the Storm

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:13:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: All it takes to bring everything back is a single, unexpected sound.
Relationships: Lancelot & Dinadan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Weather the Storm

Lancelot was caught off guard by the sound of his sword – the damned thing was never in its scabbard – striking the floor, the steel-on-stone sound something he only ever expected on a battlefield. He dropped the cage glass – brought from Rome herself – he'd been examining and crumpled to the floor. The glass shattered, the fragments clinking against the stone of the floor as he brought both his arms over his ears and screamed like a trapped animal.

–

Dinadan, who was _not_ wandering the halls seeing who was up this late and what they were up to, thank you very much, was the only one who heard the scream. He sprinted towards it, aware he was unarmed in the event he was walking in on a duel or a murder.

He saw Sir Lancelot curled in on himself, the broken glass shards all around him and his sword discarded across the room. The few candles in the room gave the scene an ethereal look. Lancelot seemed to be alone, but who was he to judge? There were many kinds of ghosts that haunted both castle and men.

“Lance?” he asked as he let the door close behind him. The thing closed with a thump, which caused Lancelot to flinch and skitter backwards, landing in a sprawl with his chest up and arms behind him, hands barely supporting him.

–

_Lancelot was in the middle of the battlefield, shield strap broken and shield lilting to one side. He did not have the time to undo the other strap before he needed to break an oncoming strike with the pommel of his sword._

–

“Lancelot?” Dinadan tried using his full name to see if it helped. He took a step towards Lancelot to see if there was something he'd missed that would have the King's Champion acting like this.

“No,” Lancelot crawled backwards, a slow and painful-looking maneuver, “No, don't please.”

–

_The sheer force of the impact made Lancelot's arm feel as if it had cleaved him wrist to shoulder blade. He let out a pained scream but swung his half-secured shield to strike his assailant._

_He must have taken a fraction of a moment too long, because the assailant was able to block Lancelot's shield with his own. Off-balance and in pain, Lancelot fell backwards, the sound of his sword hitting the uneven, rocky ground echoing despite the roar of the battle around him._

–

“Lancelot,” Dinadan said again but didn't come any closer.

“How do you know my name?” Lancelot demanded.

“Why one earth would you ask that?” Dinadan frowned, fearing some type of madness had taken over his friend.

“Please,” Lancelot begged, “Please don't.”

–

_“No,” Lancelot heard himself whisper._

_This wasn't how it was supposed to end, effectively unarmed and wholly unprepared._

_He wasn't supposed to beg, not for mercy, not for death. He wasn't supposed to allow himself to feel the fear this acutely._

_Despite everything, he heard himself whisper, “No,” again._

–

“Lancelot,” Dinadan crouched down into a squat, “where are you right now?”

“We're at Badon Hill,” Lancelot told him.

 _Great,_ Dinadan thought. He'd heard of this – otherwise ideal warriors who, often long after the battle was over, revisited it in both mind and body, needing to be brought back to the world they lived in.

“Lancelot,” Dinadan told him, “I am going to come sit next to you. I will not harm you. Is that alright?”

“Why would you do that?” Lancelot backed up a little more. 

“Because it's what you need,” Dinadan hoped that was true. He crawled over rather than walked, careful not to put hand or knee into any of the glass shards. Lancelot flinched away when Dinadan sat by his shoulder but stopped moving.

“Please,” Lancelot was still begging, “do not show me mercy.”

–

_Lancelot closed his eyes as he awaited the blow that would end his life, but it never came._

_When he opened his eyes again, his assailant was nowhere to be seen._

_He loosed the shield strap and left it behind so it would not throw him like that again._

–

“Oh Lance,” Dinadan frowned, “what happened?”

“I fell,” Lancelot seemed to give pause, “What's happening?”

“Where are you?” Dinadan repeated the question.

“I,” Lancelot tried to answer again, but something about the question broke him. He began to weep, his arms and shoulders giving out, leaving him flat on his back.

“Come here,” Dinadan told him, “come here.” Lancelot rolled onto his side and then onto his stomach and buried his face in his hands.

“What's happening?” Lancelot repeated, the question having a sort-of hysteria to it.

“I'm trying to help you,” Dinadan told him, realizing as the words left his mouth they were unkind as best and the complete wrong words at worst, “Easy breaths, Lance, easy breaths.”

“Can't -” Lancelot managed.

–

_“Lancelot,” Arthur pulled him aside in the war camp later that night, “what happened out there?”_

_“I don't know,” Lancelot nearly choked on the words, “I don't know.” It came out no smoother the second time._

_“See that it doesn't happen again,” Arthur warned him._

_His King was gone, moved on to more important things, before he had the chance or ability to assure him it would not._

–

“Can I put a hand on your shoulder?” Dinadan asked. Lancelot shook his head no so violently Dinadan worried he may harm his neck. “I won't, I won't.” That seemed to placate Lancelot enough that he stopped the whiplash level of head shaking.

“Inhale,” Dinadan tried a more instructional method, “hold. Exhale. Good.” He repeated this until Lancelot was able to follow the instructions without taking multiple gulping breaths during the _hold_ process.

“I'm sorry,” Lancelot said as soon as he was able to put two words together that made any sense, “I'm so, so sorry.”

–

_Lancelot did not sleep that night, terrified someone would catch him unaware, end his life for his failures and he wouldn't have the chance to fight back, to show he deserved to live._

_Again._

–

“It's alright,” Dinadan tried to assure him, “Can you tell me where you are?”

“In my study,” Lancelot was able to tell him this time, “The sword – it hit -” Lancelot's breathing was picking up its pace again, the panic returning, the sentence unfinished.

“Looks like it fell,” Dinadan told him, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Lancelot was quick to say.

–

_“Here,” Arthur himself handed Lancelot his shield the next morning, both straps in place as if nothing had happened to it, “be more careful, will you?”_

_“Yes, sir,” Lancelot said, head hung low and eyes unable to meet Arthur's disappointed gaze._

–

“Are you sure?” Dinadan was unconvinced.

“No,” Lancelot told him the truth this time.

“Take your time,” Dinadan told him.

And, really, no one had ever so much as hinted that Lancelot had time on his side before.

Lancelot began to weep again.

–

_The next day – what happened to be the last day of the battle, Lancelot fought like a man possessed, the fear and fury and _fear_ again strengthening him in ways no training would have been able to do._

_On the way back to Camelot, he managed to fall asleep in the saddle._

–

Dinadan sat next to him, unmoving, while Lancelot finished weeping.

“Sorry,” Lancelot said again.

“It's alright,” Dinadan tried to assure him, “You've had a time, it seems.”

Despite everything, Lancelot snorted.

“You're allowed to not be perfect,” Dinadan told him, “Really.”

–

_Back at Camelot, Arthur asked Lancelot to stay behind after the more formal recap of the battle and losses despite the ultimate victory._

_“You fought well,” Arthur told him, “Despite everything, you fought well. Do not frighten me like that again, understood?”_

_“Understood, sir,” Lancelot could still not meet Arthur's gaze._

_Lancelot supposed that was more than he deserved._

–

Dinadan sat on the cold stone floor as Lancelot spilled the contents of his soul in word form, as the candles burned low and then burned out and Lancelot told him every failure he'd ever felt, every moment where he could have _done better_ that left a mark on his very soul that no amount of confession or penance would be able to undo.

Dinadan let him spill.

Dinadan listened.

Despite knowing there was nothing he could do to ease his friend's mind or soul, he listened.

Sometimes, he knew, the best you had to offer fell short of actually helping.

–

Dinadan kept watch over Lancelot as he slept where he'd all but crashed on the floor. If he could do nothing else, he could make sure Lancelot got something that resembled rest for once in his life.


End file.
